Keeper of the Wolves Read Online Free

calm strength, but the human face that
became my own under the light of the moon betrayed my emotions.
Compassion filled the girl’s eyes and she put a hand on one of the
bars. Her fingers came away wet with my blood. A feeling of intense
regret rose in me that I had soiled her beautiful pale skin. She
lifted her fingers and her eyes searched my hands.
    I was surprised to find that I still held
the whip. After everything that had happened, it seemed a petty
object compared to the victory it had represented before the
journey. A tiny furrow formed questioningly between her eyebrows
and I wished I had a way to explain to her why I held it. That
human emotion surprised me. I never explained myself to anyone. I
lived a strange life, but before the circus it had fallen into a
simple, easy cadence. I was accepted, did my share, and lived a
life of peace within my pack. The want to explain the weapon in my
hand to a human girl showed how very far I was from that life.
    Her eyes shifted to my left hand and a
feeling close to pain crossed her face. She walked around the side
of the cage to get a closer look. I stepped to the back corner, as
far from her as I could stand. The tattooed man kept pace beside
her; his hand rested on his sword in case he should need it.
    She held out her hand. The gesture was the
same the tattooed man had made, but she looked at my injured hand
instead of the whip. Her fingers slid between the bars and I grew
completely still. No animal in the forest was as motionless as a
wolf when needed. I had seen elk walk within feet of a wolf without
seeing it despite the animal standing in the open. One trick wolves
taught their young when they were old enough to hunt was lying
motionless in a meadow until rabbits returned to graze in the
clover. The activity tried the patience of the younger pups, but in
times of starvation, such a trick could mean a full belly when
other predators felt the pinch of hunger.
    I watched her in that way, my muscles still,
my body tense, and my eyes locked on hers. No one ever reached
through the bars. One of the Cruel One’s assistants, a lad with red
hair and jagged front teeth, made that mistake while beating me
with a club through the bars when I refused to eat the foul refuse
he served as food. His club had several spikes made by broken
branches on the end, and one caught deep in my shoulder. When I
pulled back, the club went with me. He let out a string of foul
words I was grateful I couldn’t understand, then he reached in
after it. I caught his hand and shattered his arm with his own
club. Since that day, no one broke the invisible barrier of cold
metal.
    She spoke quietly, her eyes searching mine.
The tattooed man behind her said something and she gave a small
nod. She smiled at me and the bottom fell out of my thoughts. It
was the first time I saw how a curve of the lips could soften the
corners of the eyes, add a reddish hue to the skin of the cheeks,
and brush the edges of the face with a touch as gentle as
moonlight. The effect was breathtaking and I forgot my fear.
    I lifted my hand to hers and studied her
face as her she gently examined the wound. Her eyebrows lowered
slightly and worry showed in her gaze. My thoughts were distracted
by the soft graze of her fingers over my skin. I watched her gently
probe the deep gashes that ran across my palm and the back of my
hand. The pain that answered was dulled by the fact that she caused
it. Blood pattered the floor in soft, dull drops. She lifted my
hand and looked at the base of my thumb. A small shard of glass
showed in the deep laceration. She said something to the tattooed
man.
    He took a step closer and my instincts
suddenly rushed forward as though waiting for an opening to remind
me where I was. I closed my hand and took a step back slower than
my brain screamed for me to, but I didn’t want to startle her. She
said something else but was cut off when the door flew open.
    A man charged into the room followed by half
a